


The Wait

by OberonsEarring



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 16:19:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17124662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OberonsEarring/pseuds/OberonsEarring
Summary: Nerves send Scott outside into the cold.





	The Wait

Maybe it's the moon that makes him feel this way. Restless, like there's an itch inside of him that he just can't reach. It tickles at the bottom of his throat, at the bottom of his chest, in his stomach, in the soles of his feet. His whole body, just one big bundle of fluttering nerves. And he doesn't know why.

And it makes him warm. Like there's a fire somewhere burning way too hot. Blue flames instead of orange, like a gas burner set up underneath sweet-smelling chemicals in the lab. An explosion is imminent. 

The snow has fallen deep that day, half-way to his knees, which considering his height is quite a bit. And forgetting to don his coat and hat and mittens and other things that would protect him against the bite of winter wind, Scott Summers treads out onto the lawn in nothing but slippers and blue striped pajamas, heading out towards the small pond at the edge of the property.

It's pink now, with the moonlight bouncing off the snow. In his head, he reminds himself that it's white, and he misses that color. White. The purity of it. The sacredness of it. He misses all colors. He misses being able to look another human being in the eye and the connection that forged because of it. In truth, he wishes he were never a mutant, and wonders what his life would be without his powers. 

The pond is silent still. A layer of ice glittering with fresh fallen snow. The moonlight gives it a ghostly cast, a haze of pink struck by erstwhile diamonds and sudden flecks of near-red light. Yes, this is where he needs to be, and so he sits at the edge of it, right on the shore, and dips his feet down so that they hang just centimeters above the freeze.

Maybe it's Emma that makes him feel this way. This sudden twinge inside as he recalls what she did to the love of his life, how she took part in wresting away her control and spiraling her into the arms of the Dark Phoenix. Or maybe it's Jean, and that she's gone now, not yet risen again from the ashes. He misses her, like he does color, as if a part of him is constantly broken and no matter what what he does he can't fix it.

Or maybe it's Logan.

That strange look on his face, the way he stepped in too close in the Danger Room. The way he sniffed at his neck and pressed his arms against the metallic walls. It was a harrowing moment, with fight or flights spiking electric through his arms and legs, and he came so close. So close, his lips, his mouth. At the last second, he pulled away, leaving Scott a heap upon the Danger Room floor.

How many years had been now since Logan had looked at him like that?

His stomach flutters once again with blue-black butterflies that feast upwards into his lungs and make it hard for him to breathe. And he pulls himself in, his knees tight to chest in both cold and the sudden pang down his groin. 

He feels the heft of the blanket around his shoulders, and startled, he looks up ready to blast away his intruder. “You shouldn't be out here like this,” Logan says. “What if you get sick?”

“I'm fine,” Scott's voice trembles.

“You don't look fine.” Logan kneels to pull the blanket around Scott's shoulders. “You look cold.”

It is hard for Scott to look at him now that he's close again, that he could perhaps tell the difference between hot and cold, the warmth of red on his cheeks as he takes in the scent of tobacco and alcohol. “You've been drinking,” he says quietly, his eyes behind the visor glinting back and forth between wild gray.

“I'd drown in it if I could,” the older mutants sighs, taking an unasked for seat beside Scott. 

“Why?”

“'Cause the world ain't ever been easy.”

The silence drifts like snow from above, lazy and flittering. There are words between them, words to be said, but they don't come like they should. When Scott's teeth start chattering, Logan moves closer, puts his arm around the younger man and pulls him close to his much warmer body. It's a nice feeling, this calm between them, and though Scott's frozen, he doesn't want to break the contact. “Why now, Logan?” he asks. For years, he'd fought against the warmth of these feelings – put them deep in a box in his mind and locked them away. There was no sense in the dreams he had, nor the skipping his heart when Logan looked at him.

“I don't want to die and not know what it's like to kiss you.”

“That's all you want? Just a kiss?”

“You offerin' more?”

Visor floats back to lake. He's not actually sure what he's offering, just that this is different than Emma or Jean. There's no voice in the back of his head that consoles him or praises him. No flash against the brain letting him know what he should do or shouldn't. “I'm with Emma,” he says quietly. 

“We should go in then. We don't need her finding out.”

“No, wait!” Scott's voice is louder than intended, more desperate. Bluing lips shiver with the continued cold.

“You're too cold --”

“The boat house,” he points to the place where he and Jean had spent their married years. He hadn't gone in there for years, not since her death. Logan understands what this means. That Scott's moved on, past the death of his wife, and he's not sure how he feels about that. “Let's just go back,” Scott decides after studying the look on Logan's face. He stands before Logan can protest, brushes snow from pajamas and pulls the blanket tight around himself.

His slippers are soaked through, his pajamas drenched, his hair a damp, icy mess. He's been out here too long. Emma will come looking for him. It's okay to just call it a night.

“Scotty...” The name's reserved for special times, when the two are close, when there's concern or worry. Still on the ground, his hair flecked with the sparkles of snow, he grabs hold of Scott's wrist, stares ardently into red visor. “The boat house is fine.”

They fear a fire will gather a crowd, will call Emma from her slumber or Piotr from his workout. They make due with blankets, wrapped up around water-laden clothes, snuggled together in the corner beside bed. They are nervous. “What if Emma finds out?” Logan asks, fearing that he could once again put Scott in the line of fire.

Emma is not Jean, who turned a blind eye to it all. The wistful glances, the time spent along the jogging trail in the woods. She shrugged her shoulders when Storm had told her about the strangeness between the two. In the end, she knew without a doubt that Scott would never leave her, no matter how much Logan got under his skin.

They talk, as they are now. The Christmas tree in the foyer and the gifts for the kids, the glitter of snow, the latest training sessions that Scott's developing. They roam onto other things like memories and their mess, how hard it is to remember smiling or laughing. How hard it is to remember Jean. “I miss her,” Logan says, knowing that the conversation will leave Scott a little empty, but it's worth it just to see the glimmer of emotion that sparks across his face. A rare thing, to be sure, especially now when the whole world stands against them. 

“Yeah,” is all Scott manages in reply. A simple word, and Logan expects the jaw to steel, to grit, to fence back the emotion and lock it deep inside of his heart like he does with everything else, but Scott doesn't. For the first time in years, he lets the emotion sway him, roll over top of him like a cloud, and in his torment, he pushes himself into the strong, warm arms of Wolverine.

Logan slicks back damp hair from visor, enamored. He's waited for this, this wellspring of emotions. The man in his arms has been too silent for too long, too buried, too focused on the very moment that he hasn't had a chance to breathe. He can smell the guilt come off of Scott – a sad, murky scent like ozone before a torrential downpour, thick and musty, and Logan can only imagine the reasons. “She never blamed you, Scott,” Logan whispers, pressing a soft, caring kiss to the crown of the younger man's head. “She loved you no matter what.” A long pause as he smooths back wet hair and tilts Scott's chin to the air. “And so do I.”

If he could see behind the visor, he would know the pain in Scott's eyes, how it rounds out his eyelids, pushes brows to the edges. He would see the shock and tears and all else that cloud the light brown eyes with flecks of green hold. Logan's seen those eyes once, on a distant planet, and he remembers how beautiful they were, and how much he missed them once they were gone from sight again. 

A stroke of finger down cheek to wipe away and errant tear, a long pause and closeness. There is desire in the air, both his own and Scott's. It's ripe and sweet, nectar and vines, the smell of a dense meadow and spring sunshine. The kiss is a soft one, so tender, so needed and heartfelt. 

He's warm again, unsettled, restless. He feels it stir inside of him as the kiss slowly deepens. It's a hunger, something that could be ravenous, starved, so parched for this love between them. To show it. To feel it. It becomes something far beyond his control. Something that is desperate and empty, trying to drink it all in, to fill himself. 

Long fingers wrangle in Logan's thick, black hair, pulling him closer. Knees part, straddle the urgency that forms between thighs. There is no more thoughts of Emma, no more thoughts of Jean, just the need to be close to this man. Years worth of ache slide hands down shirt, skipping across buttons until the skin beneath is finally free. They fumble at the belt, scurrying too fast to be efficient in their need. 

Logan stops him, puts hands on wrists, pulls him away. “Scott--”

“I want this, Logan.” Like a dam burst, it will take years to rebuild, to strengthen his resolve again. “More than anything.”

“Emma --”

“I can't do this anymore. I want you --”

“She's looking for you.”

There's a fear that shudders down his face, flinches at lips and jaw. “No.” He grips at Logan's shoulders. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Logan's voice is gentle, sweet, understanding. A polite tug at wrists and he shuffles the blanket hard over Scott's shoulders. “I told her I'd find you.”

“Logan--”

“I'm sorry, Scott.”

“There's still time. We can--”

“Scott. You need to pull yourself together,” Logan says as he buttons up his shirt. “It's time to be a leader again.” Pain is a striking thing on Scott's face – sharp and angular, his brows just visible above the silver rim of visor. His cheeks are red, his lips just parted. All while Logan's eyes are stern. He pushes Scott gently to the floor and stands, watches the grief still trifle over jaw. “You need her, Scott.”

“I need you more --”

“The whole mutant species needs her. And they come first. That was always the deal between us.”  
Logan watches as the pain smooths from brow, as jaw hardens, and the man becomes once more a rock for the entire species to lean upon. “I'm sorry, Scott,” he says quietly. “I was weak.”

It's long hours after he returns to the mansion before Scott finally decides to sleep. In his bed is Emma, a woman that he does indeed love, but not as much as he should. She rolls over with a sleepy smile on her face. “There you are. Where have you been?”

He tells her a lie, that he thought he heard something and went to check it out and then got caught up in forgotten paperwork for the school. His pajamas dry, his mind locked up tight, she doesn't suspect where his heart truly is – still in the boathouse with his lips upon Logan. 

“We just have to wait it out, Scott,” Logan had said all those years ago. “Once there's peace --”

“There will never be peace.”

“There will be if you're there to lead us.”

And so he does. Lead them. And hopefully, one day, that longed for peace will come and he and Logan can be together.


End file.
